University of Virginia Library

Years ago Connor Glanny,
The honest poor man, he
Felt the bitter distress,
You may easily guess,
Whin I tell you he'd lost
All his fruit from the frost
(An' his apples the way
His rint he used pay);
An' his young wife confined
An' still on his mind;
An' their first little son
The weakliest one;
An' so, you may say,
The sight of that orchard
The little man tortured,
Wid sorra a pippin
Smilin' off of its kippin
To meet Quarter-day.

Well! the night barrin' two
That the rint it was due,
He up and away,
Before it was dawn,
To his cousin Jer Shea,
Beyant Derrynane,
To see could he borrow
The money agin
That day after to-morrow;
But Jer wasn't in,
But across at Eyries
Wid a boat-load of trees;
So Glanny turned back
By the mountainy track,
An' the head hangin' down,
Was trassin' for town;
Whin he chanced in Bunow,
On a small little sow,
On the naked rock lyin',
An' jist about dyin.'

It was awful hot weather,
An' Glanny was bate,
An' to Sneem altogether
Was six mile complate;
Still an' all for that same,
For the baste has its claim
On the honest man's mind;
“I'll not lave you behind,”
Says he, “in the sun,
On that scorchin' hot shelf,
Or to bacon itself
You'll shortly be done.”
So off of the rock,
The two arms around her,
That bonneen he took,
An' faith an' he found her
A good weighty block,
An' was right glad to ground her
In the shade of the hedge
At the dusty road's edge.

Then, says he, “Faix I think
I'll bring you a drink,
You poor little baste,
You'd die softer at laste.”
So back to a fountain
Where himself had just been,
He stretched up the mountain
For that little bonneen,
As if 'twas his daughter,
An' filled his caubeen
Full up wid spring wather,
Thin turned slowly back
Like a snail on his track,
For fear he'd be spillin'
The drink if he ran,
Though the heat it was killin
To a bareheaded man.

Thin the sow for that sup
Lookin' thankfully up,
Now, what do you think?
Before you could wink,
Sucked it down in one drink,
Gave herself a good rowl,
An' thin, on my sowl!
Starts up, why, as frisky
As if she'd had whisky,
Racin' an' chasin'
Her tail wid her snout,
In a style so amazin'
Aroun' an' about,
That though Glanny felt sure
An' surer each minute
There was something quare in it
Performin' her cure,
He should still folly afther
That bonneen so droll,
His sides splittin' wid laughter
At each caracole.

So the sow held her path
To an ould Irish rath,
Thin roundin' about,
Wid a shake of her snout
Signin' where she was goin',
She made off for an owen,
Gladiatoring her way,
Wid her tail in the air,
Through such briars and furze,
As a fool, why, would say,
In five minutes 'd flay her
Wid that soft skin of hers,
Or prickle the baste
To a hedgehog at laste.

“Hould on,” Glanny shouted,
“Or by that holly tree
Suicided you'll be,”
And made for to catch her.
But through it she snouted
Wid sorra a scratch, sure,
Just as if it was wool
She was giving a pull;
An' Glanny should folly
The pig, av ye plaze,
Right in through that holly
On his hands an' his knees,
Till she came to a cave,
Flagged above wid gallauns,
And the ould Ogham Crève
On the edge of the stones;
As he saw, whin his sight
Understood the dim light
Of that hole underground.
But no symptom around,
Left, centre, or right,
Of the little bonneen
That had guided him in.
Till liftin' his eyes,
He sees wid surprise
Herself by the curl
Of her comical tail
Swingin' down from the roof
In a wonderful whirl.
Well! to have a sure proof
The appearance was raal,
Glanny grips her forenint;
Whin widout the laste hint
Of so awful a wonder,
Through the thick of a storm
Of terrible thunder,
By lightnin'
Most fright'nin'
He sees her transform,
Transform, an' transform;
Till a beautiful fairy,
Complete in her charms,
Wid a laugh, O how merry!
She leapt from his arms
To the moss, that the minute
She set her foot in it
Turned to velvet—no less—
Of a green like her dress.
While sofies and chairs,
An' harps and pianees,
Promenadin' in pairs,
Took their places, begannies,
As if walked to their stands
By invisible hands.
Thin goold plate an' cup
Came galloping up,
The purtiest of papers
Spread the four walls, be japers,
An' a crimson silk curtain
Crowned a chamber for sartin—
At laste I'd presume,
Widout any bravado—
Batin' out the drawing-room
Of the Jap'nese Mikado.

An' as you bewilder
Ourselves an' the childer
Up in London wid your
Prestidigitateur
And his droll conjuration,
That was just Glanny's station—
Cryin' out at each wonder,
As if at a show,
“O vo! O vo!”
“O thunder, O thunder!”
“O glory be to God!
“By my sowl, but that's odd!”
Till immediately after
Some such star-gazin' speech,
There arose such a screech
Of shrill little laughter,
That he faced sudden round,
An', begorra, there found
A whole fairy squadroon,
Ivery single small one
Its sides splittin' wid fun—
Wid the former bonneen
In front for their Queen;
Who, beckn'in for silence,
“Pray pardon their vi'lence,
Mr. Connor,” says she,
“For really my elves
“Will be makin' too free
“Sometimes wid themselves—
“Will ye whisht, all of ye!”
Thin she whispers to Glanny,
“In the whole of this part
“There never was any
“As gentle at heart
“As you,
“Aroo.
“Signs by—and because
“'Tis enchanted I was,
“Away up in Bunow,
“In the form of a sow,
“A small little sow,
“On the scorchin' rock lyin',
“An' just about dyin'
“Of the drought, you may say;
“For each one hottest day
“Through the last fifty year—
“Wid not one to appear,
“To or out of the city,
“To show any pity
“To the little bonneen,—

“For that spell shouldn't cease,
“'Till one came to release
“By liftin' me down
“To the road from the town,
“And climbin' the hill
“His caubeen for to fill
“Full up wid spring wather
“For me,
“Machree,
“As if for his daughter;
“Till, Glanny, you came,
“And accomplished that same—
“An' I'm free to my joy
“Through the manes of you, boy!

“Now what can I do
“To ricompinse you?
“Any wish that you have
“I'll give, as you gave;
“Name it,
“An' claim it
“From me,”
Says she;
“With no ‘by your lave,’ or
“Condition, or favour—
“I'll grant it, machree.”
“Thank you kindly,” says he,
“But I think you'll agree
“You never could grant
“All the wishes I want,
“Whin I tell you I've come
“From the sorrafullest home.
“The young wife confined,
“An' still on my mind,
“An' the small little son,
“The sickliest one,
“An' my apples all lost
“By the cruelest frost.
“An' my fruit the one way
“The rint I can pay—
“An' it due, to my sorrow,
“The day afther to-morrow.”
Says she, “Then cheer up,
“An' I'll manage it all—
“But its fastin' you look
“For the bit and the sup;
“So”—she here gave a call
To her fairy French cook—
“You'll stay here, an' dine
“On my mate and my wine;
“Then you'll feel more the man
“To consider my plan.”

Thin a table arose
Wid a cloth like the snows,
And upon it goold dishes
Full of soups and of fishes.
And mates and sweetmates
Hot an' cowld on the plates.
An' a soft pair of sates.

So she, why, and Connor
To that dinner sat down,
While, glory! on my honor!
Aroun' an' aroun'
Wine and Guinness's stout
Kept pourin' itself out;
An' the beautiful pratee,
Burstin' out of its jacket
In the height of its gai'ty,
Bounced up—O! and crack it,
Melted off in the mout'—
So soft and delicious—
An' delightful side dishes,
Fish and fowl, they came skelpin',
An' mutton and pork,
Presentin' a helpin'
To each knife and each fork;
Till, of all on the table
Glanny Connor was able
To manage no more.
Then, says she, “Now, astore,
“I won't lend you the goold,
“For we both might be fooled
“By its changing itself,
“Whin stored up on your shelf,
“To dock-leaves or grass—
“As is often the case.
“But I've got a surprise
“Will gladden your eyes
“When you're back at your home.
“But come, Glanny, come;
“Since so plainly you show
“Your impatience to go,
“Tharram pogue! an' good-bye,”
“An' gives him a kiss.

Says Glanny, “Why, why,
“What's the manin' of this?
“O thunder, O thunder!
“What's this that I'm under?”
“Your orchard,” so sweet,
It seemed for to say,
Then below at his feet
Died far, far away.
'Twas the set of the day,
And the sun's last ray
Showed him each leafy
Spray was heavy
Wid a smilin' store
Of apples galore—
O just the way,
For the world, like a bevy
Of girls in a play
Of hide an' seek,
Whom you find at last, after searchin' all day,
Wid the laugh on the lip and the smile on the cheek.
So each purty pippin
Curtsey'd off of its kippin'
Bright and blushin'
All over the tree.
And hark! see!
Who comes hushin',
Brave and rosy
As the rest—
Wid a shoheen, ho! so sweet and cosy—
A hearty child upon her breast?
Upon my life!
'Tis Glanny's wife,
An' Glanny's boy,
O joy! O joy!

Long and loud we applauded, then closed The Branch down,
And with friendly farewells scattered into the town.”